


I Don't Wanna Wake Up From This Tonight

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [35]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Ed Whump, Hurt Ed, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Spike, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, Minor Injuries, Other, Serious Injuries, Shooting, Spike Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:24:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then the man left, without a word, and Spike slumped into the chair with a swear.<br/>“Are you okay?” Ed asked, and tried to not grit his jaw when he didn’t get a response immediately, “Spike. Spike!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Wanna Wake Up From This Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [siennavie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/gifts).



> Enjoy, darlings. :D  
> Title from Lana Del Rey's "Dark Paradise"--which I don't own. 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint, nor the characters. I don't make a profit from my writing. However, it's still my writing so please don't repost anywhere. Thanks!

With a groan, Ed shook his head and leaned forward—head pounding, nausea in his gut—but found that he couldn’t. Not far, anyway. Ice spread through his body, corrupting his blood, and the bald sniper jerked into awareness as he took in the scene—he was strapped to a chair, arms bound behind him, and no matter how much he struggled the damn seat stayed upright. Didn’t even tip towards one direction or another.

There was another chair, a few feet away, but it was empty.

Head fuzzy, the older man tried to remember what had happened—but came up blank, just as vacant as the chair. All he could remember was Greg’s voice in his ear, Spike’s hand holding pressure on his leg— _Spike_!

Not bothering to take stock of the injury on his lower leg, Ed tried harder to free himself of his bonds; he had to go find his younger lover, had to make sure he was okay. Had to find out why he wasn’t in the room, wasn’t strapped down to the chair like Ed was.

His demands were answered quickly as the door opened, and a battered-bomb tech was dragged in—Spike’s knees refusing to hold him upright, feet unable to find traction. Sharp gasps of pain, half-obscured by clenched teeth, escaped the brunette as the man pushed him into the chair and zip-tied his hands behind him. The noises got worse, more desperate.

Then the man left, without a word, and Spike slumped into the chair with a swear.

“Are you okay?” Ed asked, and tried to not grit his jaw when he didn’t get a response immediately, “Spike. Spike!”

“Yeah,” The bomb tech groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair—it showed off his pale and clammy face, chest rising in a dramatic fashion with sharp inhales. “Um… well I’m not dead.” Spike joked lightly, hissing through his tight jaw.

“What’d they do?” The bald sniper demanded, craning his neck to try and take catalog of his lover’s potential wounds.

“Shot me in the shoulder,” Spike admitted, trying to not move too much.

Ed swore, knowing it was bad when he saw the blood starting to drip, slowly, onto the floor.

“They wanted information on the politician—where the safe house was.” The bomb tech continued, trying to blink away the tears that the pain had brought, “I wouldn’t tell them…” Spike groaned again, shifting to try and find a comfortable position. “So they shot me.”

“We need to put pressure on that,” The team leader said blankly, unable to take his eyes off of the injured man, but Spike’s head lolled in his direction with a questioning expression.

“My hands are kinda tied up at the moment,” He responded, “Not sure how I’m supposed to put pressure on this. How’s your leg?”

“Fine.” Ed said offhandedly, but Spike raised an eyebrow—he looked even paler with dark locks pressed against his forehead, the murky shade of his hair—and asked again.

“You got shot. I don’t think your leg magically healed.”

“It was a graze,” His lover bit back, worry through the roof, “I’m fine. Did the bullet go through your shoulder?”

“No,” Spike winced, “Shot went through the back, but it didn’t come out the front.”

“Can you press your shoulder against the chair? Try and get some pressure on it?” Ed bit his lip, watching as Spike shimmied in his seat and did as asked—immediately snapping his eyes shut with a gasp-y wail of pain that he quickly swallowed down. “God, Spike. I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Spike whimpered, “It’s not like you shot me.” His words trailed off, getting quieter, slurred together slightly. Just enough to send Ed’s blood pressure sky high.

“Hey, buddy, you’ve got to stay awake—alright?” The bald sniper commanded, but it still came out like a question. Not that Spike had a choice, though, really.

“Got it,” Painfully, the bomb tech responded. Eyes still clenched shut, and jaw still snapped closed, he tried to keep pressure on the gunshot wound and not jerk away from the agony. “I’ll try.”

“No, you’re not going to _try_ —you’re _going_ to stay awake.” Ed stressed, feeling his wrists bleeding as he continued to try and get free, “I wasn’t giving you options, Spike.”

“Uh huh,” Dazed, the bomb tech responded; his gaze was glassy, lines of his face overly pronounced with distress.

“ _Spike_.” The bald sniper growled, desperate and frantic, “The gunshot isn’t your only injury. What else did they do?”

The brunette huffed, rolling his head to the side so Ed could see how his hair was matted and clumped close to his ear—matted and clumped with blood, barely visible in the dim light, as the red liquid began to dribble down the man’s neck.

“Pistol whipped me,” Spike slurred hazily, and the bald sniper’s heart froze and restarted in his chest at the signs of concussion sprawled so visible across his lover’s face. “Why? I’m not going to die from that.”

“You’re not going to die at _all_ , Spike,” Ed snapped, “but you have a concussion.”

“Awesome,” The bomb tech mumbled, fading fast, and wilting forward in his chair—his frame was shaking with anguish.

“Spike? Spike!” Ed shouted, fighting as hard as he could to get out of the chair, but Spike didn’t respond—just sat there, collapsed, silently.

A door, somewhere, got kicked down—loud shouts of “SRU! PUT YOUR WEAPONS DOWN!” echoing down towards them. But Ed didn’t pay attention to that, even if it uncoiled just a millimeter of the tension within him.

“Spike! Come on, buddy,” Ed begged, voice hoarse, “ _Spike_!”

The entrance to the room was flooded with light as Team One stormed in, but Ed only had eyes for Spike—still quiet, and the bald sniper couldn’t tell if he was even breathing.

“He was shot in the shoulder, has a concussion,” Ed listed off, then barked again, “ _SPIKE_! Wake _up_!”

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” The doctor stood before the haggard team, their gazes locked in disbelief and confusion, “There was too much damage and too many complications. I’m afraid I must tell you that Mr. Scarlatti is brain dead. Is there a Mr. Parker here?”

Greg raised his hand, expression blank, shakily and numbly.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Parker, but you are listed as his medical proxy. We need your permission to take him off life support.”


End file.
